A Union of Wolves
by IronSaint98
Summary: The North rings with their coming. Warriors of valor, and strength born to stare down the specter of Death itself. Men and women who have slain monsters beyond imagining and a legacy that stretches back millennia in their own world...but this isn't their world is it? No...their world is far away and their foes now hide behind honeyed words and broken promises. What is a Nord to do?
1. The Hammer

Wolves in the North

The courtyard rings with the ageless clashing of steel. Shouts of encouragement and exchanges of bets accompany the shining blades in their contest. The crimson haired huntress known as Aela watches with a small smile as the man that she found cold and clad in tattered clothes match one of the best warriors in all of Skyrim in a straight fight. The towering form of Farkas, the wild haired and silver eyed Nord, is clad in his favored steel armor. The heavy plating and equally heavy blade in his hands hardly seem to phase the massive man as delivers punishing blows to his opponent's shield.

The younger and smaller man opposite of the Companion grunts as he absorbs the blow and retaliates with his own lightning quick blade. The subtle wavy patterns of the Skyforge Steel catch the morning sunlight and shines like a bolt of Aetherial power. The baroque designs on the hilt of the blade and the young warrior's shield shine brightly as he dances around the net of steel his mentor's brother weaves around himself. A grin tugs at his lips, sharp blue eyes shining in the sheer joy of combat. His bright blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail beneath his somewhat battered helmet.

The ancient Nordic helmet, recovered from his own family's desecrated crypt, sits squarely on the young man's head with two curved horns arcing around either side giving him quite the fearsome visage. The steel plating protecting the rest of his body, while considerably more modern, shows the wear of hard use associated with a warrior's lifestyle. Bjorn chuckles as he drives beneath the older man's guard finally and plants his shield into the back of his knee before placing his blade at his throat.

Athis grumbles as he hands Njada a pouch jingling with coins and Ria cheers beside them. The young Imperial lass blushes as the young Nord removes his helmet exposing his regal features for all to see. The strong jaw, close trimmed beard of the same color as his hair, the seemingly ever present smile, and those piercing blue eyes that seem to see everything before them from every angle. Aela smirks at her younger Shield-Sister's expression knowing as just about everyone else in Jorrvaskr does that the lad and lass fancy each other but have yet to make anything of it.

" _We'll see how long that lasts once he joins the Circle,"_ the crimson haired huntress thinks to herself with a smirk. The Harbinger, also known as the Last Dragonborn, is off on another adventure with his faithful companion and wife Lydia leaving Vilkas in his stead. While he doesn't accept the beastblood as the Huntress does he respects every Circle initiate's right to choose. The Harbinger himself shares in the beastblood as does his wife though they both take care to keep it hidden as they should.

Not three moons ago Ria herself had partaken in the ritual and joined the pack, and Hircine willing so too would Bjorn. The young Nord and his teacher meet in the center of the yard with the older man showing his student where he could have done better. Vilkas is not the tower of muscle that his brother is though that is not to say that he is not tall. All Nords have a little bit of the Giants that roam Whiterun's plains in their blood and gain their height from it. Vilkas has the same silver eyes as his brother and the same long, dark locks of hair though his body is the lithe and athletic build of a swordsman.

None of the spectators can catch the words exchanged but they all see the younger man's face become serious as he places his helm over his head once more. This time master and apprentice square off. Fresh bets are placed as Vilkas draws his blade from his hip and brings his broad shield into play. The wolf designs seem to come to life as they catch the sun's rays and all hold their breath. Aela's smirk widens to the point of being called a grin at the look on Ria's face as she watches her not-so-secret crush prepare to face his teacher.

The two men face each other for a few seconds before at some unseen signal they begin their duel. Their blades whip around so fast that many of those present can't keep track of them. The shields shudder under the power of each blow and _thunk_ against each other heavily as their bearers attempt to throw each other off balance. Bjorn lunges only to retreat and pivot around an overhead strike and ram the edge of his shield into the face of his opponent's own shield. Vilkas grunts against the strength of the blow before lashing out with his blade once more.

Bjorn lashes out with a booted foot driving his mentor back for a moment. The two warriors hardly take breath before they begin battering each other once more. The cheers had long faded into silence as two of the most skilled warriors in Jorrvaskr duel. What started as a friendly bout rapidly seems to turn more serious as the blades clash with a little more force, a little more speed. Feet, fists, heads are all thrown into the fighting with reckless abandon. And throughout it all not a single step back is taken on either side.

Just another day in the lives of the Companions.

* * *

A man watches the happenings of the mortal world. Impossibly tall and well muscled, with a stag's skull for a face, and a long spear held in one hand. Glowing eyes twinkle in merriment as they observe his children unknowingly select his next servant. The small pond's surface glows with the images of young Bjorn sparring with his teacher, his ears listen in on the thoughts of both Aela and Ria his favorite and youngest respectively. The crimson moon shines down above him bathing all those under his rule in that eldritch light that calls to the hunting instincts in every man, woman, and beast.

A tingle at the edge of his senses informs him of one of his sibling's approach. With a soft sigh he releases the barriers for that split second admitting "her" to his home. A burst of shadows announces her as she appears at his side. A raven remains perched on her shoulder as always it's feathers shining in the crimson light of _his_ moon. A wolf appears at the man's side as he turns to face her eyes narrowed in suspicion. A dress clings to her curves as tightly as the shadows who bow to her mastery.

"What is it you want Nocturnal?" he asks. His voice reverberates with both power and a challenge, the challenge of an Alpha predator. His sister merely smirks as she stalks forward, her hips swaying in her typical seductive way.

"I can't drop in on my least hostile brother?" she asks coyly, voice dripping with that hidden promise that she is known for. While not as downright seductive as Mephala's it still carries that temptation that could turn the most faithful husband from his wife for a night of forbidden pleasures.

"You always have a purpose to what you do. If this is about the one who would have been your champion it would be better for all if you turned back now: his soul is destined for my service." His sister laughs outright at his proclamation, seemingly mocking him.

"No brother I am not looking to claim another champion when I have found my last Nightingale and punished that _fool_ who would dare to challenge me. Rather, I wish to speak to you about...one of these other realms that we have always thought of expanding our influence into."

"Ah! Which one were you thinking of?" the Hunt Lord inquires as he turns back to the spar where they decide to call a draw. His sister smirks and lays the palm of her hand falt before her eyes. Planetary bodies flash into existence over the hand surrounding a single star.

"Oh I think you know which one…"

* * *

Bjorn's heart thumps against his chest as his boots find purchase against the loose gravel and shale of the old mountain path. His eyes strain to pick up the slightest hint of danger even as he picks out his next step. Farkas can't keep the excited grin off his face as his Shield-Brother leads the way towards the small bandit camp newly established in Bleak-Falls Barrow. He knows that the Harbinger's own saga begins inside this desolate tomb inhabited by his honored dead and is eager to cleanse it of filth once more.

Wind carries stinging snowflakes into his face as he pushes farther up the mountain side. At last, with his muscles and lungs burning as hot as his spirit, they come upon the great arches and staircase leading to the barrow. And, as anticipated, there were bandits in their furs and rough-forged iron plates scowling and leering at the two companions striding up the steps.

"Well, well, well! What have we here!" a muscular Orc chuckles evilly. His heavy spiked brow casts the wicked eyes in shadow as he casts an appraising eye over the two warriors' gear. Specifically the greatsword on Farkas' back. A blood stained warhammer is held in his meaty palms, the iron head covered in scratches from the years of hard use and the shaft chipped with the strains of combat. Two Nords stand beside him carrying axes and shields while a female Bosmer peers at the two from behind a pillar, a longbow held in her hands.

The companions mark her as being the more deadly of the bunch for an arrow can kill a man just as surely as a blade or an axe and from _much_ farther away. Bjorn unclasps his cloak and grasps the hilt of his blade, the heavy furs pool at his feet to the sound of hissing steel. As if the Divines themselves are watching the winds die to a mere soft breath, leaving the snow to settle and the fighter's breath to hang in pale clouds before their faces. With a savage roar the Orc throws himself down the steps warhammer raised high.

In an unspoken agreement the companions step away from each other splitting the bandits as well. The Orc makes for Farkas assuming that he would be the more dangerous of the two while the Nords bear down on Bjorn taking his slightly leaner frame for youth and thus inexperience. Only when the first Nord receives a lightning fast sword to the throat do they realize their error. Bjorn rips his blade from the first man's throat, ignoring the blood that sprays across his breastplate, and raises his shield to take a savage blow from the other northerner.

The axe digs a shallow divot into the steel rim and sends a jolt down Bjorn's arm but he merely grins. His heart sings with the joy of battle, veins burning with that savage fire that comes from being so close to death and looking it in the eye. His blade flashes and _thunks_ into his opponent's shield. The Nord grits his teeth and raises the axe once more only to grunt as Bjorn throws his weight behind his shield and drives it into the man's gut. He might as well have rammed a mountain as he feels the weight of the larger man. But it is more than enough to throw him off balance for a brief moment...that is swiftly wasted by the need to raise the shield and catch an arrow screaming for his chest. The angry projectile quivers where it is embedded in the wood and draws a scowl across Bjorn's face.

"By Ysmir...I'm going to kill that woman," he growls and steps towards the axeman once more.

"You'll have to get through me first pretty boy!" his foe snarls and charges once more. Their shields slam together with a thunderous crash and the snapping of the embedded arrow's shaft. Bjorn ducks under a hack from the axe and slashes at the slightly larger man's leg in the same motion. The Skyforge Steel bites into the flesh above the knee and sinks in deep enough to sever the tendons. The Nord's knee gives out from under him and he roars in pain before the sword hews through his neck on the return stroke. Bjorn pays no more attention to the corpse and brings his shield in front of his body to ward against more arrows. His eyes flick over to regard his shield brother who even now is levering his massive greatsword free of the dead Orc's torso.

"Come brother! More wait within!" Farkas bellows and charges up the steps trusting in the gods to defend against the Bosmer's arrows. Bjorn follows, shield ready to impose a barrier of wood and steel between it's bearer and the archer.

* * *

"I don't know sister: we might have a bit more of a struggle than you are making it out to be with _that_ world."

"Why _brother!_ Are you saying that your wolves are no match for the challenge?" The stag-skull faced man growls at his smirking sister, knowing full well that she has almost painted him into a corner with such rhetoric.

"You know damn well that they would serve better than your little _birdies_ , but there is a reason that those gods have been withdrawing from their realms. Magic there is weak and chaotic at best, the people are vipers in mortal skins, and these creatures that are colder than _Draugr_ are gathering their power once more. If my wolves are sent there–"

"They would have one of my Nightingales and a few of our sister Mephala's servants accompany them so as to have a better foothold."

"This is _still_ not a wise decision…"

"Perhaps...but it will be fun."

* * *

The ruined halls of Bleak Falls Barrow ring once more to the clashing of Northern steel. Blood flows across the ancient and weathered stone as Bjorn plunges his blade deep into yet another bandit's gut. The Argonian hisses in pain before Bjorn rips his blade free and slashes the lizard-man's throat to silence him. His shield swings around and deflects another sword from it's path towards his head before his own blade flashes in the weak lighting and plunges deep into a Redguard's chest. Farkas roars as his greatsword arcs around once more to take a woman's head from her shoulders.

"Come to me _dog_ and face your death with courage!" a tall man bellows from beeper in the chamber. Bjorn snarls and stalks forward, blood dripping from his blade.

"You call me dog scum? Where is your courage when facing an armed warrior and not unarmed girls? Where is your courage in burning a man's home down around him when he fights back? _Where is your courage to face me like a man without your slaves to stab me in the back!?"_ the young Nord roars and charges towards the man, heartened to hear Farkas' heavy steps just behind him. One bandit tries to intercept him but Bjorn simply presses his shoulder behind his shield and throws the man aside across the broad surface. He simply cuts the next man down without breaking stride. Farkas breaks off to deal with the last bandit standing and Bjorn challenges the Chief.

The chief sneers beneath his obscenely horned helm as he draws a greatsword. To Bjorn's eyes he's sloppy, overbalanced... _unskilled_. Farkas is more of a challenge when drunk. The blonde Nord's eyes go cold as he steps forward. It's a simple matter to dunk under the first, comparably, clumsy swipe and drive the point of his blade up into his skull. Bjorn coldly wipes his blade free of blood on the chief's tunic and sheathes it. A meaty fist smacks into his steel pauldron shocking him out of his foul mood for a moment. His head whips around to regard the widely grinning face of Farkas at his side.

"Well done shield-brother! Let's get home, get some mead...and get warm!" The two warriors chuckle loudly, their voices echoing off of the ancient walls. Deeper in the catacombs the bones of the restless dead rest easier as the songs of northern steel quiet at last leaving them to their eternal rest once more. While above them the north carriers on: as harsh, beautiful, dangerous, and joyful as the days when they were but youths first carving their homes from the mountain's flesh.


	2. A Dance With Deadra

A Dance with Daedra

The grey dawn sky slowly brightens to the sounds of the forge. Eorlund Grey-Mane, the best smith in Skyrim and head of the ancient Grey-Mane clan, plies his trade with the skills and strength earned over decades of beating steel into its proper shape. The red hot metal bends to his will with each swing of the heavy hammer in his hand. Sweat runs in rivers down his spine despite the bone numbing cold of the early morning as the flames of the Skyforge ignited by the funeral pyre of Kodlak Whitemane dance in their pit. Slowly, the lumps of metal begins to take shape.

Pauldrons, vambraces, greaves all shaped by his expert hands before working on the cuirass. The traditional wolf devices are wrought into the steel and inlaid with gold to stand out. The steel itself is a cold grey like the skies of winter herself and molded to the exact measurements of the one to wear it. Hours and hours he spends at the anvil, the hammer never losing its strength or skill as flesh shapes metal like clay. The sun rises and begins to fall as the smith works his wonders without regard to time. When it is finally finished he can step back and regard his work with a fond smile. The wolf head howling from the center of the sculpted breastplate is inlaid with fine silver to give the wolf's mane a fine detail rarely found.

Nordic patterns swirl across the pauldrons like mating serpents and trail down the arms. The shirt of mail meant to be worn beneath shines like silver in the evening sunlight as his calloused hands inspect every link for the slightest imperfection. Finally satisfied with his work he loads it up into a cart and begins hauling it towards the sounds of warriors sinking into their cups and singing songs of glory long past.

* * *

The heat of the roaring fire in the pit banishes the cold of Skyrim's night and fills the air with the scent of roasting meat. Whole slabs are rotating on fire blackened spits and are carved directly from the bone onto plates. Mugs of ale and mead are lifted high as the hero of the hour once again drives Athis' hand into the table.

"That's the third time brother!" Bjorn teases as he readies his hand once more. His volcanic eyed shield-brother grins widely in return and clasps his hand in turn resting his elbow on the table.

"And now you're growing tired brother! I can see the shaking in your muscles," the witty Dunmer retorts with a wicked smile.

"You lie, and I will show you!" At the word go the two warriors strain against one another, their bulging biceps straining against each other...but the Dunmer has to accept the inevitable: the Nord simply has too much muscle. So he has to improvise.

"Why hello Ria!" Bjorn flinches and Athis capitalizes nearly slamming the Nord's meaty hand into the rough table only for it to be stopped short at the last moment. The Dunmer would have chuckled at the smoldering indignant rage in the larger man's eyes...if his own hand wasn't suddenly being wrenched the other way.

"Now, now brother...don't shatter the poor lads hand," Vilkas cautions a moment before the Dunmer's hand slams into the old oaken table with a hearty _crack_ that is enough to make many wince in sympathy.

"Dibella's teats!" the Dunmer curses and shakes out his now bruised hand to the roaring laughter of his friends. Bjorn chuckles lightly and accepts a mug of mead from one of the dozens offered.

"That is why you should never get a Nord angry brother!" someone shouts and pounds the still cursing Elf on the back. Plates of venison are set at the tables as mugs are refilled and drained again and again. Torvar, already ruby faced with drink and holding a mug in either hand belts out a bawdy drinking song that every voice soon joins in making the rafters ring. The door bangs open admitting a gust of brisk air that sobers several moods. Eorlund's broad smile sends a burst of anticipation through everyone else as the aging smith wheels his heavy cart through the broad doors.

"Bjorn! Step forward lad, I've got something for you," the master smith calls summoning the youth from among the press of bodies. The smith smiles kindly at him as the man of the hour steps forward with a curious look on his face.

"I've worked on this for a while lad, I know that you've been making do with that armor for a while now and that you would never complain. But, you're a Companion now and as such you deserve the best of my craft. Your honor, your courage, and your strength to drive forward has made those who have met you see that you are more than your beginnings. Your soul is as true as any Nord can claim, this gift will protect that," the smith says creating a blossom of pride in the younger man's chest. One calloused hand takes hold of the corner of the ragged blanket covering the cart and flings it free. Gasps spread through the crowd as the masterpiece is revealed for all to see. The young man takes it all in from the glimmering gold iconography to the milky sheen of the steel and can't fight the grin splitting his features.

"Thank you Eurolund. I can't ever repay you for this," he chokes out and shakes the master smith's hand in gratitude, overwhelmed by the gift. There isn't a doubt in his mind that the armor is worth more than every coin he has touched in his life and to be given it as a gift...it defies belief.

"No need for that now lad, just keep on your path."

"Eyes on the prey not the horizon," Aela intones with a twinkle in her eye as she glances at Ria who keeps her eyes glued on her crush.

* * *

 _ **Three months later…**_

Cries of pain and fear rend the air as steel cleaves through hide, cloth, and flesh alike. Ria almost shouts for joy as she fights side-by-side with Bjorn, now forever a part of her pack after partaking in the beastblood. Their blades rise and fall, plunge deep into flesh, carve through bone and steel with ease, and let blood flow freely around their feet. The bandits fight harder as they recognize the group of mercenaries crowding the door following the two Companions. Men and women pour from within the fort's many rooms to meet in a swirling mass of iron, steel, flesh, and rage.

"To the right!" Bjorn snarls and takes off a bandit's head with a single contemptuous swipe of his blade. He doesn't need to look to know that Ria heard him and is already shifting to follow. The bigger Nord bulldozes another bandit with a blow from his shield and a hack from shoulder to navel and then ploughs through another group breaking the circle. Mercenaries storm through the door behind the two companions weapons already bloody from clearing the walls before hand. The weight of numbers shatters the thin circle that had formed around the door and sends the bandits staggering. Arrows zip through the air as bowmen on both sides attempt pot-shots through the swirling melee. Bjorn leads Ria up a set of stone steps away from the bulk of fighting cutting through a pair of bandits without pausing.

"Leave some for me!" she calls out a moment before a half-dozen heavily armed men burst through a pair of double doors.

"That enough?" Bjorn quips with a smirk bringing his broad shield between his body and the charging bandits.

"It's a start," Ria chuckles following suit. With a roar of primal fury the two companions charge forward blades screaming for blood.

* * *

A shadow creeps through the fortress as mercenaries and bandits butcher each other in fevered melees. A bow is held in easy, confident fingers but no arrow is ready on the string as the figure simply leaps from beam to beam over the fighting. Sharp eyes lock onto the two Companions carving their way through the bandits with the kind of teamwork that that group is known for. Shield-siblings will always watch each others backs. The shadow jerks slightly when a severed head smacks into a support beside his head, the cranium having been flung away from the body by the sheer force behind the large Nord's strike. The shadow scoffs and wonders why his Mistress would have sent him all the way out here to keep an eye on two barbarians.

He waits until the two slip through the now open door before dropping the ground level.

"You've made a–" the bandit's declaration is cut off by the arrival of a jet black arrow to the throat. The shadow rises from his crouch ignoring the cooling corpse behind him in favor of stealthily following the two Companions deeper into the fort.

" _Mistress there had better be a pot of gold at the top of these stairs,"_ the shadow thinks bitterly. Said entity chuckles warmly as she watches her servant follow the trail of corpses towards his destiny, nearly one with the shadows.

"I've got something better for you...my Nightingale."

* * *

Bjorn snarls savagely as he rips his blade from a large Orc's chest before twisting and slamming the edge of his shield into a charging Imperial's chest. The lithe swordsman flops ungracefully onto his back from the force of the blow and only has time to scream in denial before Skyforge steel pierces his heart. Ria slips away from an overhead hammerblow to take a waraxe across her own shield that was meant for Bjorn's back.

"You're getting sloppy!" she admonishes plunging her blade into the axe wielder's guts. Bjorn grins and steps around Ria to take the hammer across the iron boss of his shield at an angle so that the deadly mass of iron slips from the surface without transferring its full force to his arm. His sword lashes out cutting across the top of both his opponent's knees in a single swipe bringing him to his knees and into easy reach of his blade. The return stroke opens the man's throat and Bjorn steps over him, leaving him to bleed out. The Nord's once pristine armor is smeared with blood and gore after two hours of fighting through what anyone could consider a large band of bandits. Rooting them out of the myriad rooms and chambers that the fortress is split into takes time especially when one has to batter down solid oak doors to get at the more cowardly ones at times.

"Come on we're almost at the top!" Bjorn shouts at the few mercenaries that are still with them, the rest having split off to clear other parts of the fort. Six warriors and a shadow burst through the final set of wooden doors and come upon the seen which all had been secretly fearing since the assault began. Blood soaked stones are piled waist high in seven piles against the back walls, the remains of what once might have been people still shackled to their fronts, their skulls flayed and gore smeared. Runes written in crimson life fluid decorate the walls somehow not running like they should be. Totems of animal heads hang from bone hooks and rough twine cords from the rafters still drip blood into the carved channels running across the floor.

"Disgusting witches," Ria hisses as she stands by Bjorn. The big Nord merely nods silently keeping his eyes pinned to the trio of hunched figures in the center of the room. The mercenaries fan out behind the two Companions weapons held in a white knuckled grip. Fighting mages of any power is always a risk, and fighting three as obviously powerful as these ones is a deadly proposition. Bjorn glances over his shoulder, eyes gleaming behind his helmet, and smirks oozing confidence. His inner wolf howls in anticipation as he readies his blade. Before he can take a step the witch in the center looks up...and smiles.

"For Whiterun!" Bjorn bellows and charges shield presented before him the others following close behind. The three witches raise their hands with serene smiles on their faces, an eerie blue light coming from their eyes. Their leader speaks a single word that is drowned out by a roar of raw _power_ coming from their hands slamming into the warriors bearing down on them...and casting them into a world of madness.

* * *

"It has begun Sister."

"Yes Brother...it has. They should be right at home in that region." The skull faced man regards his sister with a critical eye, not liking that smile at all.

"Are you sure that the sacrifice of so many pawns is worth the venture Sister? The Hunt would surely benefit from some new ground but...there are thieves aplenty where they are going already."

"Oh dear Brother, this is nothing to me. Our plans will either secure us a new world or lose the same forever and we are truly sacrificing very little. Your Hunting Grounds will be full of new hunters and prey while I can expand my own domain. This alliance will give us a needed step above the rest of our siblings for millenia to come," Nocturnal sighs blissfully imagining all the power that would flood her ethereal veins when all those new worshippers begin sending her sacrifices. Hircine looks once more into the small portal as his two Wolves are dumped into the near frozen wasteland of their new home along with his new companions.

"It is not the cost to my faithful that worries me, this world has Gods of its own. These Old Gods...they are like the Spriggans in a way living in their trees," Hircine muses leaning on his spear.

"They might make worthy allies at least until our foothold is more secure in a few decades. These Seven…"

"They are nothing but mere aspects of what men wish the world to be. They are not a concern to me," Hircine declares already feeling the probes from the divine inhabitants of the world feeling his Wolves. A tingle at the edge of his senses alerts him to the present of the Old God's own Wolves, the rulers of these lands. There is very little of the so called Wolf's Blood in them...but then they are not _his_ children.

"The Lords of these lands...they could be a good start. Let us speak with these Old Gods Sister mine, their world is changing and we will dictate its path. Let the Long Hunt begin."


End file.
